


L'Entente Maladroite

by maxcellwire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: FACE Family, FrUKnewyears2015, Gift Exchange, Historical, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, and france is pensive and philosophical but still misses the point, in which england isn't as good at hiding his emotions as he thought, inconsistent italicisation, so many tricolons i'm practically cicero, spain get out of the limelight already, vague battle descriptions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3187598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxcellwire/pseuds/maxcellwire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During 'The Second Hundred Years' War', England and France find themselves in an awkward alliance. Being forced to work together results in the tensions you might expect, but a bond of convenience brings back old memories that threatens to be something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'Entente Maladroite

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for blogs-with-sass for the 2015 Fruk Gift Exchange. The prompt was: 'Historical hurt/comfort/drama (the event/era is up to the author/artist’s interpretation) (FACE family may be included if desired/applicable… please check historic backgrounds) Bonus if there is a battle scene with the both of them working together!'  
> As you can see from the atrocious word count, I enjoyed writing this too much and might have gone slightly overboard. I've tried my best to stick to the prompt, although the battle scene has been done in a slightly roundabout way, and Spain appears perhaps more than he should... Still, blogs-with-sass, I really hope this meets your approval and that you enjoy reading it :)
> 
> Some people call this period of time the Second Hundred Years' War due to the fact that England and France always got involved in other countries' wars for the express purpose of fighting each other. However, there are 2 wars in which they were allies during this time, therefore this story takes place during The War of the Quadruple Alliance, 1718-1720. This war isn't very well known, and is often overshadowed by the War of Spanish Succession that ended 5 years earlier, so there isn't much information about it on the internet. While this can be frustrating, it does mean I could use my creative licence a bit to Fruk it up, if you will.  
> I would also like to apologise in advance for my failure at describing battles and wars in general. I'm not a tactician and am fairly clueless in this area, so please forgive me for any inaccuracies.  
> We begin at The Hague in 1717.

“I am still unsure about this, you know,” France muttered, leaning against the wall and watching England out of the corner of his eye.

“Yes, I believe we all are.”

“The Netherlands doesn’t look so unsure.” And indeed the nation in question appeared much more relaxed, lounging in a chair as they waited for their bosses to emerge from the meeting room. Perhaps it was the effect of being at home that made him seem so comfortable, but it was always difficult to tell with the Netherlands. It seemed as though he was never perturbed by anything, not even in battle. France and England had both had enough experience with him to know.

“Well, I suppose it’s just another opportunity for him to get back at Spain,” England remarked, shrugging. “You know how he is.”

France hummed in agreement, too proud to admit it in words, and they fell silent. They stood awkwardly, France subconsciously twirling a lock of hair around a finger, England nervously itching the side of his nose. It was important to be civil, then; there was important business at hand, and both of them had been ordered by their bosses to be on their best behaviour. France couldn’t help but think that it was easy for them to say that when they hadn’t been almost constantly at war with each other for hundreds of years.

Still, he had always been known for his amiability and charm. If he was going to be allied with England, he was going to do it right. He cleared his throat and spoke.

“How is _cher Écosse_ these days? I trust your union is going well.” England raised an eyebrow.

“It’s fine, I suppose. It bothers him more than it does me, anyhow.”

“I’m surprised he’s not here to sign the treaty with us.”

“Yes, well, we’ve made an arrangement that I shall undertake all the duties for the both of us. He would much rather remain in Edinburgh with his people, and I would much rather keep him out of my work. It suits both of us.”

France could think of a few choice things he would’ve liked to say in response, but he kept his mouth shut for the sake of the alliance and smiled politely instead. The whole thing felt...wrong, somehow, as though they were denying themselves. They were rarely this civil with each other, even in peacetime, and then it was usually for the benefit of their respective monarchies or impressionable young colonies.

At last a young man entered from a door on the side and spoke briefly with the Netherlands, who turned to the two of them and invited them to follow him into the room. The thick curtains were drawn back, allowing the January afternoon to cast its light over the three scrolls that lay on the table. Their leaders were seated around the table, waiting patiently for their nations to be by their sides.

Signing treaties was nothing new. The same procedure was followed every time, the reading out and the signatures and the handshakes. They had been through this many a time in many a city, and were fairly confident that they could do it in their sleep. It wasn’t as though they really needed to listen to the treaty being read through anyway; as countries they knew exactly what would be required of them, and there had already been enough discussions about this particular alliance that they knew the ins and outs perfectly. Not that they had much of a choice in what happened, since their leaders would always do whatever they wished and expect the nation to follow.  

Standing behind their respective officials, they waited until they were instructed to add their own signature. Each copy of the treaty was signed with the Netherlands’ neat print, France’s delicate flourishes, and England’s scrawl of ‘Great Britain’, a strange thing in itself. Then they straightened up and shook each other’s hands, comparing the rough calluses of a nation with the soft, pampered hands of a monarch.

And finally it was over. The Netherlands wasn’t especially known for his hospitality, and as expected he and his representative exchanged formal pleasantries before leaving swiftly. This left England and France to each other’s company in the grand hall. Their leaders were chatting to one another gaily, discussing family matters or something equally trivial, and the two nations stood to the side, politely pretending that they weren’t eavesdropping.

“That wasn’t as strange as I’d thought it would be,” England said suddenly, refusing to meet France’s eyes.

“Pardon?” England rolled his eyes and France gritted his teeth in response.

“I _said_ ‘that was-“

“I know what you _said_ , _ros-_ I heard what you said. I just wondered what you meant by it.” England shifted nervously, then, looking away once more and studying the paintings on the wall intensely as though he had never seen them before.

“I had thought it would be strange being in an alliance with you, after so long fighting you, that’s all. I thought my hand might seize up and try to stop me or something equally ridiculous.”

There was a slight blush dusting his cheeks as he admitted it, and France wondered if he ought to invite England back to his home, to catch up and perhaps do a little bit of treaty ratification of their own. But then the other was being dragged off by his King and didn’t look back, and France was suddenly very glad he had stayed silent.

*

They didn’t see each other again until late summer.

It was telling that they had both turned up in the clothes they usually fought in, England in his heavy, crimson privateer coat and France decked out in the pure white of his military, when there were no plans for combat. They had simply agreed to meet at Cagliari and try to persuade Spain that this wasn’t the right thing to do, that they had all agreed to follow the Treaty of Utrecht and neither of them were willing to let this crime slip under the radar. Still, the uniforms made their thoughts clear, and their grim expressions when they saw the state of Sardinia were even worse.

“I did not believe he would go this far. My bosses said so, but I was so sure _Espagne_ would not be so stupid,” France muttered, shaking his head sadly.

“I can’t imagine how furious Austria must be at the moment,” England added, wiping the sweat from where the broiling sun had coaxed it from his brow. “I suppose we’ll be receiving contact from him some time soon, or perhaps even from the Holy Roman Empire himself.”

“Ah. Yes. _Autriche_.” England snorted and folded his arms over his chest.

“No need to sound so impressed, France.”

“We are not exactly the closest of friends.”

“No, I gathered that. But neither are we, particularly. In fact, I’d wager you get along better with Austria than you do with me.”

France looked up from his lap, where he had been studying his hands, to meet England’s eyes. True, for most of the wars they had fought, France had been too preoccupied with trying to defeat England to take any notice of Austria in the background, and he supposed he would be able to put up with the other were it necessary. There was something about England, however, that made him want to stay close like they had been when they were younger, even after all the fighting and betrayal and bitterness. Days of faerie stories and too-big-tunics and two small bodies resting together came to mind, and something clenched in his chest.

“Ah, I would disagree with you there, _Angleterre._ ”

“You would?” And dear England, he looked genuinely confused, his head cocked to the side as he tried to find the answer in France’s face. It was a shame that France would never let him, _could_ never let him, else an international incident would certainly occur.

“Of course.” Once again that blush started to creep up England’s cheeks, splashing a spot of colour over his pale skin as he pondered France’s words. He hadn’t been expecting them, but if truth be told- “After all, I would never do the things with him that I do with you. For one thing, he would never let me. He is not as filthy as you are.”

The words England had been about to speak died on his lips as he took in France’s smirk. The blush flamed to an angry scarlet as he slammed one hand down onto the table in front of them, the sound echoing around the large room.

“You are _so_ ridiculous!” he shouted, other hand curled into a fist and swinging about in the air. “Can you not be serious for one bloody moment? It’s always the same with you, but for a second there I honestly thought-“ He caught himself, freezing in the middle of his words and staring at France’s wide blue eyes as his mind caught up. 

“What did you think?” France’s voice was barely a whisper as he leant forwards.

“Nothing, ignore me.” A hand shot out to grab England’s wrist and he reeled backwards, shaking.

“What did you _think_ , _Angleterre?_ ”

“When I say, ‘Nothing,’ I mean nothing, okay?”

They glared at each other, jaws set, England’s wrist still trapped in France’s hold, unsure what they were expecting from the other but waiting nonetheless. Knowing that neither would give in, as always, and the stalemate would never be resolved. Another thought unspoken, lost to time.

The door to the room creaked open and they both pulled back, England leaping away and rubbing his wrist, hidden in the wide sleeves of his jacket. Spain’s head peered around the doorway.

“Ah, am I interrupting something?” he asked, and if even Spain could tell that something was up then England knew he wasn’t doing a good enough job at acting professional.

“ _Non, non, entrez_. We’ve been waiting for you,” France replied, waving in his friend and gesturing to the seat they had pulled up for him on the other side of the table. They both followed Spain with their eyes as he sat down, making himself comfortable with a smile on his face. Unlike the other two, he was wearing casual clothes, lounging in a billowing white shirt, his dark hair unkempt.

“So, what brings you two to Cagliari?” he asked, although he only looked at France. “I wasn’t expecting you to be in Italia.”

“Well, you see, that’s exactly why we’re here. We weren’t expecting you to be in Italie either.” Spain’s smile widened and he chuckled.

“Oh, I’m here a lot. I like to visit Romano, you know, and he’s only across the sea from me, not too far. It’s ideal, really.” France sighed heavily, feeling the weight of what he was about to say weighing down on his shoulders, and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment.

“Espagne, listen-“ England stepped in, noticing France’s discomfort.

“The problem is, Spain, that you’re not allowed to visit Romano anymore.” Spain’s smile faltered slightly, and he still refused to look at England.

“I’m not?”

“Don’t play dumb with me because I know full well you understand what I’m talking about,” England snapped, and a dark look crossed over Spain’s face, his eyes hidden. “You signed the treaty and you agreed. Romano is under Austria’s care now, and it has to remain that way, otherwise you’re violating the treaty and we will have to take action.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“The Netherlands, France and myself, of course.” France inhaled sharply as he felt a twinge in his chest, and both sets of green eyes turned to him, one accusatory and one observing. Spain looked crushed.

“Francia? Is this true?”

“I’m sorry, Espagne,” he murmured, unable to look his friend in the eye, letting his hair fall in front of his face.

“But...why?”

“Angleterre has already told you why. I cannot allow you to go through with this, you know that. It will be better for all of us if we can agree on this now and save any problems later.”

Spain was shaking his head, his eyes shining with tears, as he replied, “No, Francia, I won’t. That treaty wasn’t fair; I have lost too much. Surely you can understand that?” His eyes flickered briefly to where England was sitting before returning to France, who looked sadly back at him.

“I’m afraid I cannot. You have to abandon this plan of yours. Romano isn’t yours anymore, and you’re only bringing trouble upon yourself by trying to contest that.”

Spain was quiet, and France and England held their breath, both waiting for him to announce that he would abide by their terms, so they could all go home peacefully.

Instead he muttered, “I thought you were my friend,” glaring at the table as though he was trying to burn holes into the wood. France felt the guilt settling heavily in the pit of his stomach and he swallowed, wishing there was an easier way to do this. But he had to face the situation in front of him, so he steeled himself and found his voice came out much more firmly than he had been expecting.

“I _am_ your friend, and I only want what’s best for you. Chasing after Romano like a love-sick puppy is _not_ acceptable behaviour.” 

“You don’t understand!” Spain cried, pushing back the chair roughly and rising, fixing France to the spot with his pained gaze. “You can’t just take him away and expect me to sit back and let you walk all over me. I love him and I’m willing to fight for him! Why does nobody see?” He paused for a moment, looking away, and his mouth was pulled down in the corners. It was strange seeing Spain like this; although they’d known battle before, there was something else other than the bloodlust they all felt during a war that motivated his actions, and it stirred something in France that made his heart ache. Spain sounded broken when he spoke. “I thought you were my friend, Francia. How could you do this to me?”

Suddenly something in France snapped, and he found himself on his feet, pointing at Spain angrily, his arm shaking with the force of trying to restrain his emotions.

“Well I was not exactly best pleased when your King started to claim my throne, either! We agreed that he would stop making these claims, and now you allow him to do this behind my back? I cannot allow it, and I _cannot_ allow you to go through with this! I love you, Espagne, you’re my friend, but my people come first.”

For a moment the two shared a fierce look across the table, both having forgotten that England was in the room with them, and dozens of unspoken words passed between them, the bite and bruise of betrayal and desperation. Then Spain set his jaw and nodded curtly.

“Well, if it comes to war, then that’s that. I won’t let anything come between me and Romano, not even you.”

With those parting words, he stormed across the room and threw open the door, letting it bang against the wall and leaving the two blonde nations sitting in silence. Spain’s words hung in the thick air, pervading their senses as they tried to make sense of what he had just revealed. England swallowed thickly, sweat prickling down his spine, and he turned to see France still staring straight ahead, his body tense.

“France,” England began to say tentatively, “i-is everything alright?”

“Does it look like everything is alright?” he snapped, and England thought that perhaps France had retreated into the defensive shell he would occasionally put up when stressed, until he slumped back into his chair and rested his head in his hands, sighing, “ _Dieu_ , I would rather be stabbed in the chest multiple times than have to hurt him like that.”

“I know, but it was the right thing to do. We have to act in our best interests, no matter how friendly you may be.”

“I know, I know, I just wish it wasn’t so.”

“I understand. Sometimes it’s difficult, but there is nothing we can do to change it, so we just have to be strong and carry on. I’m sure that it will not affect your friendship too much in the long run, though. He will come to his senses and realise you were just doing what you had to do. _We_ were.”

His words were tinged with a gentleness that France didn’t hear often, and he found himself yearning to be comforted, to blurt out all his feelings and rest his head against the warm chest those words seemed to promise. The chair creaked as England got up, stretching his legs and wondering why the sight of France so miserable wasn’t amusing him as he had sometimes imagined it would, in his darkest moments. Instead he floundered about uselessly, not knowing how to begin comforting him. He could comfort the colonies well enough with a story or two, but France was not a child, had seen too much to believe. The only thing he could think to do was be confident, and hopefully they could share that between them.

“Even if you have to make sacrifices now, France, you won’t regret this. I promise,” he swore fervently, making his way around the back of the chair. France felt the fleeting touch of a hand resting on his shoulders, but then it was gone, and England was saying, “I’ll wait for you outside,” and leaving him alone again.

*

And that was that. Spain had left no question as to his intentions, and now all they could do was make preparations for the inevitable. Letters were sent and received, their tone professional and not like them at all, formalities exchanged at brief encounters throughout the following months. Austria grew more and more agitated as they monitored Spain’s movements, and they waited in trepidation, not daring to sail off to the Americas in case they would soon be needed at home. The wait was agonising.

Until, finally, there was news.

“ _Angleterre_ , pray tell me why there is a huge fleet of ships in my port?” France demanded, his arms crossed and one eyebrow raised disapprovingly. He had journeyed up to Calais as soon as he had heard the news, but he had not been expecting to be faced with an admittedly rather impressive force. Huge white sails covered the summer sky, and there were men hard at work on the deck of every ship. “You know that Calais is mine and has been mine for a century and a half, oui?”

England rolled his eyes.

“That sort of greeting is to be expected of you, frog,” he grumbled, to the amusement of some of the men on his ship. “I actually turned up to do you a favour and tell you that I’m taking these ships to the Mediterranean, but since you’re being like that-“ France cut him off, eyes wide.

“Quoi? You’re doing what?”

“Keep up! I’m taking a force around to the Mediterranean, probably stopping in Palermo. On ‘peacekeeping’ grounds, of course.”

“Of course.”  They shared a look, France being the first to look away as the weight of this movement sunk in. “Well, how long will it take? Do you need me to join you?” England snorted derisively.

“No, no, that won’t be necessary. Although I would recommend that...you know.” France nodded. They had agreed that, should the time come, France would mobilise and move south, prepared to give support should England need it. There was still a sliver of hope that perhaps Spain might give up this quest and let them carry on peacefully for a while – God knew that Europe had seen far too many wars in the previous century – but, realistically, both knew what they were expecting.

“Right,” England said, clearing his throat so that the workers behind him stood to attention. “I’d best get going, otherwise we’ll never get there.”

“Oui, d’accord.”

They stood there awkwardly, France at the end of the dock looking up and England wringing his hands on deck, not looking half as powerful as he ought to when in charge of so many men. Perhaps his people saw him as a captain, and perhaps the rest of the world were intimidated by the aura of power that surrounded him, but to France he still looked rather like a child, swamped in his father’s uniform. It was endearing, in a way.

“I suppose I’ll...see you later?” A small smile tugged at the corners of France’s mouth.

“Later, oui.”

England exhaled shakily and then took a step back, barking orders and setting his men to work so that they could pull out of the port and start heading around the coast down to Spain. It would take them a while to reach Sicily, especially since they would probably stop off at the new territory of Gibraltar to gather news, and with all his experience, he knew it was imperative to get going and start preparing for battle swiftly.

As the ships pulled away from the port and began the journey through the Channel, England heard a shout behind him and turned back to the dock curiously. There was France, hair golden in the light of the sun, standing on tiptoes and waving them off.

“À bientôt!” he cried, and England grinned and raised a hand in response, struck by the thrill that ran through him at the responding smile. He leant against the railing and watched as the dock got farther and farther away, imagining France’s figure shrinking to a mini-Frenchman in the distance, his eyes the same deep blue as the vast expanse that lay ahead of them.

“Captain?” a voice inquired to the side, and he turned to see one of the recruits, shaking himself out of that strange state and getting back to work.

*

After a few days they arrived in Gibraltar to refresh their supplies, and the crew disembarked and headed straight for the nearest drinking establishment, ready to make merry with the locals. England traipsed behind them, chuckling at the bemused expressions of the Spaniards – no, British now – as a rowdy group of men jostled their way down the streets. He soon found himself in a pub ordering drinks for a group of them, since the barmaid didn’t speak a word of English, and once he had a mug of beer nestled between his hands, he asked the woman whether there was any news he should know about.

“Si, haven’t you heard?” she replied, shocked. “Spain has taken Palermo from Savoy! There’s a huge fleet there apparently, over 300 ships, or so they say, and the Italians aren’t resisting at all. It’s almost like they want to come back!” England raised an eyebrow.

“I see. You say they’ve taken Palermo; do they have plans to move on through the whole island? Perhaps the mainland?” The woman laughed mockingly, leaning an elbow on the counter so he could see right down her ample cleavage.

“How should I know? I’m only a barmaid, not a consultant to the king!” She laughed again and went back to cleaning up, leaving England grinding his teeth angrily in the corner. So, Romano wasn’t putting up a fight? In all honesty, he wasn’t that surprised; the meeting with Spain the year before had revealed much about the relationship he had previously assumed to be no better than his own and France’s. After all, he didn’t know Romano particularly well, and what he had seen of the boy’s character hadn’t seemed all that pleasant. Perhaps he had just misunderstood all this time, and ‘bastardo’ was actually an Italian term of affection.

He wondered if news of this invasion had reached France yet and how much longer it would be before they could join forces, because it seemed that would be the necessary course of action. It would be so much better if they could be there together, so he would have somebody to rely on rather than running into battle alone. Not that he had always needed help to defeat Spain before, he hastened to tack onto the end of his thoughts. He didn’t _need_ the frog. It’d just be comforting to have him there, as a back-up.

Scowling at his thoughts, he downed the beer and paid for his drink, preparing to haul the men back to the ship. If Spain was going to play this sort of game then they would need to reach Italy much earlier, no matter how much the crew wanted a night of rest. In the end they would always follow Captain’s orders.

*

The days continued to pass, and with it each nation readied himself for battle. England gave orders furiously, distracting himself from constantly looking out for sight of land by writing letters to the colonies that would never end up being sent. France marched his sparkling white army all the way down to the southern coast, every day gathering news from the locals as he waited anxiously for the clash between his friend and his ally. And all the while Spain took more and more of Sicily, his smile wide as he lounged in camp with Romano by his side where he belonged.

Still, that wouldn’t last.

“Captain, we’ve sighted Spanish ships in the distance!” a cry came from above, and the crew on board each of the ships stood to attention as they waited for orders. England made his way around to the Barfleur where Byng was waiting for him, a grim expression on his face.

“It seems we might at last have the chance we have been waiting for,” he was saying, England staring out to where he too could see the flags of the ships drifting on the breeze. It was warm in Sicily, too warm, sweat prickling down his back and making him wish he could shed the heavy coat. “It is difficult to tell from so far away, but I believe there are more than just fighter ships among that group there. Perhaps if we can target the merchants…”

And so the conversation went, more captains being drawn in to form their battle plans, while all the while the Spanish ships sailed closer and closer, eyeing the foreign ships warily but otherwise seeming unfazed. They soon drew close enough that each could make out each other’s faces, and as the tanned men stared back at the battle-ready Britons, they realised what lay before them. One of the captains stepped forwards and called out in shaky English,

“What is it that you want, English sailors?”

“Are you not aware of what has been occurring on the continent?” England called back, hand resting on the hilt of his sword where it was tucked away in the scabbard on his belt. “Tell me, is there a Captain Carriedo among this fleet of yours?”

The Spaniard shrugged and turned to his crew members, and as he did so they noticed a small group of merchant ships trying to break away from the crowd. Without needing to be told, the British ships began to follow, slinking after them as they glided over the waves. The captain turned back to England and shook his head.

“ _Lo siento_. He must be on the island, at Messina.”

“Ah, at Messina? Well, that _is_ a shame. I suppose if he had been here, he would be able to tell you that the British and French have condoned this invasion of yours, and if you will not stop willingly, we will remove you by force.”

At this he drew his sword, pointing it at his rival across the waves, and the Spaniard did likewise, staring at him down the long line of the glinting metal. They were too far away to do any damage, their glares the only harm done so far by either side. England felt his crew members step forwards to be beside him, and for a brief moment he pictured France in their place, a flashback to their last alliance before his Parliament had pulled out over religious bickering. Back then it had been inconsequential, and he had thought nothing of leaving France along against their enemies. Why was it that his image came back to him now of all times?

They waited for three breaths, _in and out_ , their crews silent behind them, _in and out_ , arms steady with the power of the swords. _In and out_.

And then came the shot.

*

“You should have seen it, France! My men were spectacular, really, they were. I mean, I knew that already, but they really proved it out there,” England rambled, waving his arms in the air as he demonstrated, the wine in his glass threatening to slosh over the edge. “We showed those Spaniards, and I bet now that Spain knows what he’s up against he’ll realise that he’s no match for the Franco-British forces and just go home already.”

France rolled his eyes as the Englishman tipped his head back and stared at the fabric of the tent, his eyes slightly out of focus from all the alcohol he had consumed.

“Ouais, Angleterre, so you have told me multiple times already,” France replied, “I only hope that what you say is true.”

“Of course it’s true!” England spluttered, cackling to himself, “Who could fail to be cowed into submission by the mighty power of my navy? Did you see how many ships we captured, France? And sunk all the rest too, I’m telling you. There were dozens of people on those ships carrying all sorts of things: rich Italian wine, silk dresses, piles and piles of gold. I nearly went mad when I saw!”

His coat pockets were heavy with jewels, necklaces strung with sapphires and bangles inlaid with diamonds. He had pocketed them when they had unloaded their booty, with the strange notion that perhaps he might give some to France, since the other liked to decorate himself so much. In the haze of the wine they were forgotten.

“I believe it was more than just ‘nearly.’” England glared at him, the effect somewhat dampened by the alcohol, and he took another gulp of his wine, making France wince.

“If you had been there, France, you would know what I mean. There wasn’t much to see through all the clouds of smoke and dust, mind you, but the thrill of it all is something I could never grow tired of, not even if I live for a million years more.” A dreamy look came over him as he gazed out at something the other nation couldn’t see, lost inside his own memories and dreams of splendour. “If you had been there.”

“Hopefully next time I will be.”

England blinked out of his stupor and turned to the Frenchman, watching him pour his own glass of wine. His hands were shaking ever so slightly, and he would never had noticed had the comment not been so unexpected. His thick eyebrows knitted together as he watched France lean back into the cushions, and he said cautiously, “Yes, that would be helpful.”

They fell silent, then, an awkward weight settling in England’s stomach that told him he had perhaps had enough wine for the evening. He tried to look anywhere other than at France, the nervous twitch to the other nation’s lips making him queasy, but somehow his eyes were constantly drawn back.

Finally, France sighed heavily and spoke.

“I received another letter from Autriche today.”

“Oh?”

“He’s urging us to declare war quickly. I can tell he’s frustrated because he pressed through the paper several times. It’s quite unlike him.” They shared a smirk.

“Why doesn’t he just do it already, instead of waiting for us? Besides, I think my actions in the past few days can be seen as a declaration enough, at least to Spain himself.”

“I do not think Espagne will be very happy when he hears about this. If he hasn’t heard already.”

“Well, no, of course not. That was the aim, wasn’t it?” There was no reply. “Wasn’t it?”

“Oui, I suppose it was.”

The tent was so silent that they could hear the murmurings of French soldiers outside, casual conversation intermingled with the thump of boots on the ground. The Spanish were mentioned more than a few times.

“France,” England said, his words vibrating in the now spoilt air, “when I do declare war on Spain, will you follow?” The other nation wasn’t looking at him, instead staring stubbornly at the nothingness in the other direction, so that all England could see was his uncharacteristically nervous profile and the stubble gracing his chin. The elegance betrayed very little of his emotions to those who didn’t know him like England did, and the thought of knowing him so well caused a short spike of alarm to race through his veins.

“Of course. It is part of the alliance,” France replied simply, voice flat.

“I don’t just want it to be because of the alliance. I want to be sure that you’re doing this because you agree that Spain ought to be stopped. There’s no point getting mixed up in this mess if you disagree with me.”

France shook his head, curls falling over his shoulders, and his eyes dropped to his lap, where he was wringing his hands from the inner turmoil.

“It is not that. I do agree with you, Angleterre, I do.”

“But…”

A flicker of a smile appeared on France’s lips as he turned to his ally, resting an elbow on the armrest and placing his chin in his hand. He watched England for a moment, noting the way he rested his own elbows on his knees, hands linked together, just as he had since he was young.

“No matter about the ‘but’s. If Espagne’s man continues trying to assume my throne, I will have no choice but to stop him. I will follow you into war and do my utmost to make it end quickly, for reasons I’m sure you can understand. You shall have to trust me on this.”

“Of course,” England answered immediately, and then his eyes widened, France’s eyebrows also raised in surprise. Where had this unwavering trust come from? England trusted him now as much as he ever had, as much as he trusted that France would attack him at his weakest and as much as France trusted him that he would continue to terrorise his merchants in the West. England didn’t doubt for a second that France would do as he said, and that thought should have frightened him as little more it did. Instead, to his mortification, he found himself blushing.

France beamed. “ _Bien_.”

*

The months that followed only brought more bad news, and it seemed to the two of them that war was becoming inevitable. England knew that he was needed back at home, but he remained on the continent with France, listening out for news of the siege at Messina and Austria’s spectacular military failure. They waited in trepidation, anxiously conferring with each other and making hurried visits to the Netherlands’ house that only seemed to culminate in tea with Belgium – which, while pleasant, was not exactly what they were hoping for.

Spain declared war in December, and they were quick to respond, France delivering his own declaration firmly from thin, pressed lips. England had expected him to disappear for a while, but he remained the charming host, entertaining his guest with visits to French cities that had changed so much since the last time England had tried to raze them to the ground.

Soon enough he had outstayed his welcome, though, and it was time for him to be getting back to the fleets. It had been strangely quiet in the Mediterranean, considering the war was now official, and he was getting suspicious.

“I’ve caught wind of a conspiracy,” France told him suddenly, as he was donning his coat and preparing to leave. He paused mid-movement, looking up to where France was leaning against the door and watching him. “In December, to overthrow the Regent.”

“In December?” England nearly dropped his coat from shock. “Why didn’t you say anything?!”

France shrugged. “I declared war, did I not? That was saying enough. Besides, I did not think anything would come of it, but now they are taking an army down there. We are going to invade.”

“And quite rightly, I should say! I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this, France.” He bent over to lace up his boots as France continued speaking.

“I did not see any reason _to_ tell you. I’m only telling you now to reassure you that I’m on your side. Before it would only have added another layer of confusion to our discussions, whereas this way we can both go about the plans our leaders have set for us.”

“Well, that’s true, I suppose…” England’s words trailed off as he stood up, tugging his coat over his shoulders and making sure that he was presentable. France was watching him like a hawk, and he squirmed under the scrutiny, suddenly very eager to be on the waves again, away from this confusion, where he could clear his head and think through his emotions without the presence of the very man causing them. “I’d best be off, then. I hope everything goes well in your invasion, although I trust I’ll be hearing news from you before then?”

“Don’t tell me you’re worried about me, _Angleterre_?” France teased, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes as he curved against the wall. England hid his relief at witnessing normal French behaviour by furiously denying it.

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous! I’m only concerned about whether your battle plans are successful, otherwise it will be a drawback for all of us. Now I’m leaving before you say something even stupider.” France rolled his eyes, but the smile remained on his face, and he waggled his fingers in a quasi-wave.

“Whatever you say, _cher. Au revoir_.”

*

The spring saw France marching his army into Spanish territory, his leaders desperately trying to motivate the half-hearted troops as they crossed the border and began to take each town, one by one. France grew stronger with every step, feeling the power of his military coursing through his veins, and each success brought more courage, more strength to face Spain when the inevitable time came.

The Spanish soil was familiar; most of his time spent here had been as Spain’s ally, forming battle plans against his current allies, lounging in the warm sun and gossiping about the rest of the countries and their conquests in the New World. In a way it felt as though these towns and villages were already part of him, so taking them over was simple enough. Simple, easy and oh so successful.

As they progressed farther and farther into the country, however, the Spanish forces continued to fight against them. This was to be expected, but what France hadn’t expected was their quick defeat. His troops easily overwhelmed the Spaniards, and more and more towns fell prey to the French forces.

At least, it went that way until they reached Alsasua. The town was almost theirs, the residents surrendering fairly quickly, and France was patrolling the streets with a group of men behind him, rifle clasped firmly in his hands, when he heard a noise down one of the side roads. Signalling to his men to keep quiet and stay there, he turned down the alley, gun pointed ahead of him.

“ _Qui est là?_ ” he called, peering into the shadows cast by the midday sun. Two figures were whispering down the end of the alley, and they froze at the sound of his voice, the taller of the two emerging from the darkness.

“Francia?” France started backwards at the familiar voice, then peered at the face in front of him, seeing curly dark hair and a bright smile that faded when he caught sight of France’s gun.

“Espagne?”

“What are you doing here?” France blinked at him, trying to see past him to the other figure, and Spain deliberately moved to block his view.

“We are at war, and I am invading. You already know this.”

“Si, I do. But what are you doing _here_?” The exchange was awkward, like it had never been before, and France found himself nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot as he lowered the gun slightly.

“I might ask you the same question. Who is that behind you?”

“Nobody, just one of the townsmen.”

“I’m not just one of the townsmen, idiota!” the voice cried from the shadows, Spain wincing as he was thumped on the shoulder. “I knew I should’ve stayed with Austria instead of following along with your stupid plan.” Romano’s head appeared from behind Spain, his curl bobbing in the air, and France’s eyebrows rose painfully high.

“You brought him here with you?” he asked, voice tinged with disbelief.

“Why shouldn’t I? He’s old enough to fight, isn’t he?” Spain asked, pulling an arm around Romano’s waist. The Italian briefly fought to be free of it, but didn’t seem too upset when he realised the Spaniard was too strong for him, instead choosing to pout angrily.

“But he’s not Spanish! We’re fighting you and your people, not the Italians. The Italians didn’t try to assume my throne or breach any treaties, did they?”

“ _Francia_ , we already spoke about this, didn’t we? I told you I would get Romano back and now I have! I’m sorry that you don’t like that, but now we’re together again this can all stop, right?”

France shook his head slowly.

“ _Non, Espagne_ , it doesn’t work like that,” he told him, slowly getting more worked up as he realised that the other nation had actually expected him to allow this. Was that the way he appeared to people, or was it just Spain being Spain? “I cannot trust you not to go any farther than Sicily. I cannot stand back and allow you to take rightful territory from my allies. And I certainly cannot allow you to allow your conspiracies to infiltrate my people, otherwise we’ll have to drag the whole of Europe into this war, and I’m sure you don’t want that either.” Spain frowned darkly, arm tightening around Romano, who cowered under France’s dark look.

“When did you become like this, _Francia?_ You trust _Inglaterra_ more than you trust me.” The answer came surprisingly easily, without all the pomp and circumstance that a revelation like this probably ought to have. Instead it was as easy as breathing, not a thought spared for deliberation.

“ _Oui_ , I do.” Spain’s face fell and he looked away, focusing instead on Romano as he spoke.

“I don’t want to fight you, _Francia_.”

“Don’t try this with me, _Espagne_. I’ve made my decision and I’ll stick with it. Now go, quickly, and don’t let me see you around here again.”

France’s words came out fiercer than they had both been expecting, and Spain almost looked frightened as he ushered Romano past him, looking back with sad, green eyes. France remained in the alley after they’d gone, still clutching the rifle, and took in a few deep breaths to calm himself. Once his hands had stopped shaking, he emerged from the alley, informing his men that he was heading back to camp and that they ought to continue scouring the town.

As soon as he arrived at his temporary home, he found a piece of paper and a pen, and began to write.

*

_Cher Angleterre,_

_We have reached Alsasua and look forward to more successes in the coming days. The country has been relatively easy to invade, although I am slightly worried about the health of my men. It seems as though the locals know something we don’t, and I do not want to have to cope with disease when we are making such progress._

_On the subject of progress, where are you? It has been a long time since I heard from you, and all I have found out from the locals is that there was a plan to invade, which I had assumed would be impossible. Perhaps, since you have not given word, I was mistaken, in which case, I hope that you and Écosse can cease your fighting for at least a week to defend your shores._

_Still, I am desperate to know if this will affect our plans. My hopes are riding on our chances for the summer._

_Salutations distinguées,_

_France_

_P.S. We have seized Pensacola from Espagne, and while this naturally delights me, I am rather worried about Amerique and Canada._

_*_

_Dear France,_

_I was very pleased to hear of your success, and I trust that by the time you receive this letter you will have progressed farther into the country and taken more. If Spain is this easy for you to take over, perhaps he will surrender quickly, which would be a blessing for us all._

_The news which you have heard is unfortunately true. The Spanish troops reached Scotland on the 10 th and decided it might be a splendid idea to try and invade. Having said that, most of them had been turned away by an accident with the weather a few days before – it seems Spain never does learn from his mistakes. We have pushed them back for now, and I have every confidence that they shall be expelled from the island soon enough._

_Regarding your concerns about the summer, I am sure that our plans will go ahead. It might be wise to postpone them for a couple of months, however, just to make sure our borders are secure. I presume we are still meeting on the same date?_

_Regards,_

_England_

_P.S. Indeed, it has been a long time since we visited. I am sure the pair of them are fine, but it wouldn’t hurt to check on them soon. What do you propose?_

_*_

They met at Bilbao in August, hiring a room in an inn and ignoring the dirty looks that the innkeeper was giving them. Maps and papers were strewn across the table that they sat at, coats slung over the backs of chairs and hats resting on hooks. The room itself was fairly bland, with a bed in the middle and some wardrobes for clothes. England couldn’t help but think that anyone who would stay a night or more here was a fool, even after years of sleeping in tents and little stone houses with thatched rooves.

“You are too formal in your letters,” he found himself saying lazily, kneeling on the floor as he gently wrapped a bandage around France’s upper arm. “Sometimes I wonder if it’s even you writing them.”

“What would you rather I do, send a rider to your rainy country for the sake of a few trivial notes and doodles?” France scoffed, rolling his eyes and wincing when England pinched the sore skin. “You _are_ aware that I am far more civilised than you will ever be, aren’t you? After all, you are a pirate, whereas I am an elegant man of the court.”

“I’m a privateer,” England corrected, “and my actions are legalised by the King. Your lavish parties do not count as a form of civilisation, unless that is now determined by waste and debauchery.”

“Hasn’t it always been?” France smirked, a knowing glint in his eyes, and England had to look away. France always looked so pleased with himself, even now, at war. And that was the thing, that neither of them really felt tired or worse for wear. The wars from the previous years had ravaged them, but this year had brought only power and nourishment from the sea breezes. France’s only injury had been due to the force of nature, rather than the skill of the enemy troops. Working together made it too easy. “Anyhow, we are meant to be making progress with these battle plans, are we not? I do not think our bosses will be particularly pleased with us if we present them with nothing.”

Once England was satisfied that France’s injury was taken care of, he returned to his seat, watching the other roll down his sleeves. With the bandage out of sight he looked just as majestic as ever.

“It’d just be proof that it’s impossible to force us to work together. That’s the pain of having new monarchs all the time; they never understand the world like the last one did, and by the time they _do_ have a grasp of who you are, they die. I wish humans would stop doing that,” he grumbled with the woe of millennia on his back.

“That might honestly be the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard you say,” France laughed, his frame shaking with mirth, “and I’ve known you for a very long time.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never thought something like that!” Even as he protested, England couldn’t help but laugh along with him. “It’s so inconvenient having to adjust to the next one, and one minute you’re Catholic, the next minute you’re at war with the whole continent…”

“I believe it is only you who has those problems, _Angleterre._ I, on the other hand, can’t wait to be rid of most of my monarchs. The common people are much more interesting, even if their wine is not as good. Monarchs just mess you around and look down their nose at you, ignoring the fact that you were there when their mother’s mother was born.”

“Hah. I suppose you’re right about that one.”

A tense quiet followed, in which both realised that they had just agreed with each other, and England was aching for a swig of rum. So instead he announced,

“Come on, let’s get on with these plans. It’s no use just sitting about and moping. The sooner we sort this out, the sooner we can defeat Spain and then make our way over to the New World.” He reached out to the table and unfolded one of the maps, tracing their pencil marks as he read over their tentative plans. “So far we only know that you will attack by land, and I by sea.”

“The glorious French army and the fierce English pirates joining to make one formidable force.”

“Unstoppable, and the whole of Europe knows it. Spain’ll be quaking in his boots.”              

France rolled his eyes but didn’t deny it, instead watching England pore over the maps and make little scribbles, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. It was quite an amusing habit that he hadn’t noticed before, and looking at him like this, he really did look like a young human, rather than a proud island nation that had been pestering him for hundreds of years.

“Okay, so the best course of action would be to have you continuing to push in from the north while I make an attack from the sea in the west. That way, Spain won’t know where to direct the majority of his forces, as they have already been defeated by both of us, and then one of two things could happen: either-“ France interrupted, waving an impatient hand in front of England’s face.

“ _Non, non_ , that would never work. _Espagne_ already knows that I’m coming in from the north so he’d be expecting me. It would be better if I attacked from the east, then he would be taken completely by surprise. Besides, I’m losing men day by day to this irritating disease and fear we’ll have to retreat if it continues to decimate us. Replenishing the forces with a fleet in the east would be a safer bet.” He snatched the pencil from England’s hands and scribbled over the pre-laid plans, smirking. “ _That’s_ why my battle tactics are superior to yours, _cher_.”

“Ha!” England barked, affronted. “Well if that’s the case, you’ll have to use your navy to sail around to the east and invade from there, but you’ll need to make sure that you split the fleets into groups. You always attack in one place, but having multiple landing points is a much more efficient way of using your resources.” He pointed to the map, sketching out an image of the ships arriving on the coast, with a little bearded France heralding their arrival. The real France peered closely at it, their heads bent together, and smiled.

“And _you_ ought to make sure that that is what you definitely do _not_ do on land, because if you separate your men into small groups, it will be easier for the Spaniards to finish them off. I have seen you suffer too often because of this fault of yours.”

“Point noted. So I’ll sail around and launch an attack here, either a siege or a full occupation, depending on the resistance, and at the same time you’ll come along here - it would be best if you made your attack and got onto land quickly, just in case Spain’s fleets are swifter than we’re expecting and try to engage in a battle. You’ll have the upper hand if you’re on land, and then you can start marching inwards, correct?”

When he received no reply, England looked up and found France’s face startlingly close.

“What is it?”

“I just find it amusing how we know each other inside out,” France murmured, the remnants of a smirk still flickering on his lips.

“Well, I-we’ve fought enough times to know, I suppose. With the number of battles we’ve had, I think it’d be stranger if we didn’t know each other’s flaws.”

“But who would’ve thought we’d be using them to correct each other’s mistakes, rather than exploiting them?”

Blue eyes met green, both of them struggling with the sense of _something_ that clutched at their insides, a cocktail of excitement and nerves and fear, fear of hundreds of years of fighting culminating in something sweet like this. France’s gaze dropped to where England’s lips had parted softly, his breath coming faster as the realisation of _‘too much, too much, what have you_ done?’ hit him directly in the chest.

As France leant in, eyes fluttering closed, England inhaled sharply and pushed back, the legs of his chair screeching harshly against the wooden floor.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded, cheeks blazing and fists clenched to hide the tremors.

“I…I thought,” France stammered, confused.

“Well, you thought wrong! Why does everything have to be like this with you? Must there be romance in everything?” At this France rose too, his brow furrowing angrily, and he jabbed a finger at England over the table.

“Don’t get like this with me, _Angleterre_. I didn’t do anything wrong and you’re already making a huge fuss out of it.”

“But this isn’t the first time you’ve done this. You did exactly the same thing when we met with Spain two years ago, and I responded in exactly the same way, but still you never learn!”

“Have you ever stopped to think that perhaps it’s not my fault but yours? All you care about is fighting and winning, but not about anybody else! You drift about in your own world, plundering and conquering as though it doesn’t affect other people. You’re so selfish, and yet you say _I’m_ in the wrong?”

England paused, his heart stuttering as the words came at him like a gunshot, and his fists slowly unclenched. He knew that he came across this way, knew that he had to put on a show if he ever wanted to be taken seriously by the continent, but some part of him had hoped that France could see that. And France _had_ seen through that, or at least he had before, when they were young. France was the only one who could make him like this, reach into his chest and draw out the dangerous emotions that lay buried there. So why couldn’t he _see_?

“Besides,” France was still berating him, a fierce light in his eyes, “it’s not like this is the first time. Do you just pretend those things never happened, pretend you’re too good for that?”

“This is different!” England protested, shaking his head to rid it of these stupid, stupid thoughts. There was no way he could be affectionate with France, no way in hell, and they had both been idiots to even consider it.

“Different in what way? I don’t see any difference.” France had his hands held out in front of him, and if he couldn’t hear his voice, England might have thought he was pleading with him. He barked a bitter laugh.

“Stop lying, France, to yourself and to me. I know you too well to be fooled into thinking you’re that oblivious. In fact, I bet you knew exactly what you were doing right from the start, isn’t that right? Did Philippe goad you into this, or do you like toying with me for your own pleasure?”

France narrowed his eyes, a sickening feeling curling in his chest.

“I do not take kindly to your accusations, _Angleterre_ , and I would think very carefully about what you say next.”

“Why should I?” England retorted, crossing his arms over his chest, fully aware that he was making mistakes but quite content to make them. “How come you’re allowed to dish out the insults and I can’t retaliate? I thought we were on equal playing ground here, but obviously not.”

“Oh _, must_ you be such a child about this? If you would take a step back and stop being such a _connard_ , maybe we could get somewhere, but it seems you’re incapable of doing so.” England growled and threw his hands up in exasperation.

“That’s it, I’m leaving. This alliance was a terrible idea and I pray to God that this war is over soon enough so that I can fight you again, and this time I _will_ end you.” He stalked towards the door, but before he could leave, France called out,

“I don’t think so, _Angleterre_. As we’ve just established, I know everything about you, so now I can plot your demise even better. Thank you ever so much for the information.”

England paused in the doorway, fingers so tight around the handle that his knuckles were white, and glanced back, the light from outside casting a halo around his face. “You’d better be at Valencia in October, or else I’ll just go ahead on my own and Spain can take your bloody King. I don’t care either way.” Then he left, slamming the door behind him. The room trembled, and a pot on the table fell over and smashed, ceramic shards falling on France’s boots. He shook with anger.

“Bâtard anglais,” he spat, folding up their battle plans and putting them aside. He didn’t want to think of England right now, didn’t want to think about what he had said and what had been thrown at him in return. The constant marching of his army pounded through his head, distracting him and reminding him that he had business to attend to, which thankfully didn’t involve any brutish nations with beastly eyebrows.

But when he lay in bed that night, England’s words kept coming back to him, rushing through his head until the early hours.

_I know you too well I know you too well I know you too well_

*

The preparations for the capture of Vigo continued through the summer and into autumn. They both received and ignored more desperate letters from Austria, even forgetting about persuading the Netherlands to join them. Their letters to each other were terse and brief, and if they saw the disapproving looks that their respective leaders gave them, they ignored them and feigned being busy.

England set sail a whole month earlier than necessary, aimlessly traversing the waves as he mused over their argument. They were isolated out in the blue, and there was no sight of another ship for miles. No pesky Spaniards or irritating frogs to deal with, but no friends or allies either. Somewhere out there, he knew, lay other lands that didn’t hate him so much, young children with bright eyes and smiling faces who were always happy to see him; when he was here, however, it was easy to convince himself that there was nothing to the world but water, lashing and foaming at the side of his ship, crying out for blood.

The day for the invasion crept up on them both, and they found themselves subconsciously adjusting their plans on the other’s advice, France ordering his men to attack at intervals along the coast, England assuring he had enough soldiers to make an impact once they hit land. Both reminded themselves not to think of the other, but by doing so only managed to conjure up images of their meetings, of lazy smiles and nods of agreement and all the hopes they had riding on this one move.

Even battle wasn’t quite enough to distract them.

It would have been impossible for them both to launch their attacks at the same time, so Spain became aware of France’s eastern assault before he realised that England was marching on his soil on the other side of the country. He had been caught in the middle, just as they had planned, defenceless against the power of the two forces combined.

They fought in sync, storming up the beaches and into the cities, swords out as they conquered, the power of thousands of men behind their backs. The echoes of the cannons’ shots resounded around the city walls, the smell of gunpowder pervading the air. Sails billowed in the sky, the St George’s cross red as England’s coat, the clouds a field of fleur-de-lis as they told the whole world just who was here on Spain’s golden shores.

They felt each other’s presence among them, every English soldier becoming France, every French soldier England. Their previous words rung in their minds: ‘this fault of yours’ and ‘you’ll have the upper hand’ and ‘à bientôt,’ see you soon, when the battle is over meet me here. They fought on the strength of their words and their memories, powering through, stronger than ever.

Yes, there was blood, and fire, and death, but they gritted their teeth and dragged themselves through, fuelled on by the shouts of their soldiers as they pressed into Spanish territory, claiming and conquering. This felt right, the way it was supposed to be, as though they had been born to be among their soldiers, directing their people, feeling the thrill of the battle from their hearts to their fingertips. As though England’s lips had been formed for the express purpose of crying out a charge, as though France’s hands were moulded to hold the decorated hilt of his sword, almost as though the two of them were destined to fight together like this from the beginning and watch as the world around them paled.

And for a nation, there is nothing better than the glory of winning a battle, parading through the streets and saying, ‘Look here, I’m in charge now, _we’re_ in charge now, and this is the way it’s going to be.’ They marched in the city and beyond, taking the land, the crops, the houses for themselves, feasting sumptuously and basking in the delight at such a success. Rumour flew throughout the whole country, every man, woman and child talking about the towns whose air was filled with lilting French and bold English, who had failed to be protected from the enemy – the joint enemy, the betrayer and the pirate, a dangerous love affair between rivals.

England and France left their camps as soon as they were confident of their positions. Vigo was captured at last, overrun by British soldiers, and so it would remain until Spain admitted defeat. England himself was grinning wickedly as he threw his leg over his horse and began to ride off, galloping over the land towards the centre of the country, where he knew the other would be waiting.

All thoughts of the argument were forgotten now, razed out of their system by the sharp fire in their bodies. They rode tirelessly through the night, both heading towards each other at breakneck pace, feeling the wind rush past them, blowing France’s curls over his shoulder as he pushed his steed faster and faster.

They spotted each other on the horizon the next day, the sky a fiery orange, the fields empty save for the sound of their horses galloping towards each other. England swung himself off the saddle before he had even slowed down, sprinting through the long grass and slamming himself straight into the other. Strong arms wrapped him in a warm embrace as he breathed,

“We did it, France! We did it, it worked perfectly, I can’t believe we actually did it!”

“We did it together, _mon cher_. You and I, _France et Angleterre,_ successfully working together,” France laughed, “I never thought it possible.”

He felt England chuckle into his jacket before the other pulled back, his hands coming to rest on France’s shoulders. He could see nothing but the Frenchman, his long hair windswept from the ride, a smear of _something_ on his uniform, eyes lit with the same feeling of _I know you, I_ know _you_ that he recognised in himself. He wore traces of the battle all over him and inside him, and England loved it beyond anything.

Without thinking, he surged forwards and pressed their lips together fiercely, heart pounding in his chest. France’s hands were on his waist, in his hair, leaving sparks of joy everywhere worth all the gold he could capture and more. The heat of the sun was warm on their skin as France’s hand drew England closer to his body, the October air sweet and calm. A thousand years passed on a shared breath, and a thousand years more, the soft brush of _this is what we have been waiting for_ against their lips.

And if they sank to the ground, light-headed from kissing, and made _love_ for the first time, only the Spanish fields could bear witness.

*

The Hague always looks more welcoming to the victors than to the losers. Once again they were sat around this table, five copies of the treaty this time, and if the other nations present noticed that France and England were sitting closer together than usual, none of them mentioned it.

They went through the motions, signing away and allowing their leaders to converse, occasionally translating if there were any difficulties. France and England’s leaders were downright jolly, and made several remarks on how pleased they were that the two had been able to get along, how they’d known from the start how successful this would be, and really, this was just proof that any kind of rivalry can be overcome, before they headed off for drinks.

Spain and his boss, on the other hand, were not so pleased. The southern nation had hardly spoken all day and, while they had known how distraught he would be that this war had accomplished nothing, it was making France especially anxious. Several times he found himself reaching to England for comfort, who squeezed his hand encouragingly.

It was in the awkward limbo after the treaty signing, when they were unsure whether to follow their leaders, stay with each other, or just go home, that France mustered up the courage to approach the brunet.

“ _Bonjour, Espagne_.” Spain looked up, startled at the address.

“ _Francia, hola_. What can I do for you?”

“I just came to check up and see how you are.” Spain shrugged, his body sagging.

“I’m okay. I miss Romano, but I’m okay.”

“That is…is good, _Espagne._ I’m glad.” He tried for a smile, and Spain returned the favour, saying,

“I’m sorry for some of the things I said before. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“Do not worry about it. We were at war, and I said some horrible things to you as well. But it was not so bad that I can’t forgive you.” The ‘as long as you don’t do it again’ went unspoken, and Spain nodded his head, some light returning to his eyes.

“It seems that just leaves my boss, then. I don’t think he’ll forgive me for quite some time.” He grinned then, always able to make a joke out of the worst things, and France laughed along nervously. He could see England coming towards him out the corner of his eye, and Spain seemed to notice as well. “Speaking of my boss, I should probably follow him, and if I grovel a bit, maybe he will let me visit you some time soon. It’s always good to catch up with _mi amigo_.”

A flood of relief washed over him at that and France sucked in a deep breath, almost forgetting to wave goodbye before Spain disappeared around the corner.

England hardly gave France a chance to breathe before he was there, lips silent but eyes inquiring. France said nothing, but gave a thumbs up as an indication that nothing was wrong, and the other relaxed immediately.

“I’m going to visit the kids,” he said suddenly as they wandered through the streets together a short while later, wrapped up against the cold. “I need to get away from Europe for a bit, and you did mention before that there was a struggle of some sort over there.”

“Oui, that sounds like a good plan. Would you mind if I joined you?”

“Oh, I suppose I can put up with you for a few months more.” He sighed heavily, feigning reluctance, and France pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“That’s lucky, because I was going to come anyway, whether you wanted me or not.”

“Of course you were, you incorrigible frog.”

*

That was how, a few weeks later, they found themselves out at sea again, preparing to embark on the long journey to the Americas. They departed leaning against the railing, watching Portsmouth fade from view as they rounded the coast, and when France kissed England he could taste sea salt. The deck rocked and rolled beneath their feet, the white-tipped waves crashing against the sides, seagulls squawking as they rode the breeze. The two nations spent the majority of the following month lounging in their cabin, reading to each other and reminiscing from years ago, sharing gossip that had been neglected in recent years in favour of battle. Where before the journey would have dragged for years and years, now they found that they were arriving too quickly, Boston looming on the horizon.

Still, they could sacrifice the time they spent together for the children who received them, giddy with joy as they rushed forwards at the call of their names in the hallway. The two older nations were nearly bowled over by the force of their young colonies, and they wheezed laughter as they returned the hugs, pressing kisses to their hair.

“You’re here!” America cried, his cowlick bobbing with excitement when he pulled back, “You’re really here!”

“It’s been so long since you were last here,” Canada added, smiling from within France’s arms, “We really missed you.”

“We missed you too, _mes petits_ ,” France replied, letting America wriggle into his embrace, and England watched them fondly.

“You’ve grown again, boys,” he realised with surprise, noting how they nearly came up to France’s shoulder. “What on earth have they been feeding you while we were away?”

“Something better than that burnt rubbish _you_ usually feed them, thank goodness,” France teased, earning him a playful jab in the shoulder. “ _Angleterre_ is right, though, you really are getting big and strong.”

“We’re going to be great, powerful countries one day, just like you two,” America professed proudly, measuring himself against France’s side.

“Well, hopefully not too soon. You’ll stay with us for a while, oui?”

“Of course!” Canada said, violet eyes shining as he extracted himself from France’s arms and moved to greet England. “I’m so glad you’re back. Will you be staying long?” There was a note of longing in his voice, and England felt a pang of regret as he answered.

“Hopefully we will be able to stay for a while, but it depends on what happens back at home. If they need us again, we’ll have to go.”

“That will be quite a long time away, though,” France interrupted hastily when he saw the boys’ faces begin to fall. “After all, we have just solved one of the main issues, haven’t we, _mon lapin?_ ”

England hummed his agreement against France’s lips, letting his chin rest on the other’s shoulder as he ruffled Canada’s fluffy hair. The two boys exchanged a confused look, unused to such displays of affection, especially not from England, and America made a retching noise, turning away. France snorted, pulling him back into their joint embrace.

Once France and England had set up the guest room – just one this time, Canada noticed, and giggled happily to himself – they sat around the table for tea, catching up with everything that had been going on. France and England gave a brief run through of recent European events, skipping over the animosity of the first decade and paying much more attention to their recent successes. It was always heartening to see their eyes sparkling with admiration, America bouncing around in his chair whenever it got too exciting for his young mind to take.

“So how about you two? How have the last few years been?”

“Well, there was Queen Anne’s war, which wasn’t very nice, but you know about that,” America explained, kicking his legs under the table as he tried to remember everything that had happened. “That wasn’t much fun. And then I got into a fight with some people, I can’t remember why, and I broke my leg at one point because I was climbing trees and it was too high, but it didn’t seem that high at first, you see. Oh, and-“

“We had our first tea!” Canada interrupted, seeing the worried looks that were settling on their mentors’ faces. “It was really delicious, although not as delicious as this one.”

“It was _not_. It’s just leaf water, that’s all it is. Leaves and water.”

“You ate grass once.”

“That was different!” America crossed his arms and turned away from his brother, pouting childishly.

“He reminds me so much of you when he does that, _Angleterre_ ,” France remarked, and Canada giggled.

“Oh, shut it. Although I can’t sympathise with you, America, since tea is the supreme drink. Perhaps you’ll understand when you’re older.”

They sipped their drinks in silence, then, letting the warm liquid settle in their bellies. Canada was still beaming happily, and America quickly dropped the act and returned to his usually rambunctious self.

“So,” France said after a while, drumming his fingers on the table, “have either of you seen Espagne recently?”

They turned pale immediately, Canada biting his lip and America ducking his head as he spoke.

“Maybe.”

“Don’t you want to tell us about it?”

“Well, we didn’t see Spain himself, exactly. He hasn’t been here for a long time, but his soldiers were here about a year ago. They were in Florida and I was worried that they might try to take more land, but it was okay because your soldiers fought them off and they went back home again. That’s all, really.”

“You weren’t hurt at all?” America shook his head. “You’re sure? You don’t look very sure.”

“America, lad, you know you can tell us anything, right?” England interjected, reaching for the boy’s hand over the table.

“I wasn’t hurt, I promise. But…there have been a few incidents recently, because some more Spanish soldiers have been here. I heard some rumours from Mexico that they’re going to come back and try to take some more land.”

“I see.” France’s voice was tight, and when he turned to whisper something to England, the boys noticed that their expressions were dark all of a sudden, in a way that they rarely saw.

“You don’t need to worry about it, though! My people are strong enough to push them back if they try anything, and everything will be okay.” The two boys smiled broadly, hoping to convince the older nations to drop the subject, but their hushed conversation didn’t cease, and the creases in England’s brow only grew deeper.

After what seemed like an age, they finally broke apart, but their hands were joined on the table. England spoke first, his voice heavy with worry.

“America, we think this could be something quite serious, and leaving your people to fight it alone would be wrong of us. We’re so sorry that we left it so long to deal with this, but hopefully once it’s done, it’ll be over for good, and you won’t have to worry anymore.”

America’s eyes widened, his mouth going dry and Canada reached out to pat his shoulder.

“What are you going to do? Is it really that bad?”

“I’m going to take some troops down there to fight off the Spaniards,” France told him, “just as a warning so that they know not to push the limits. It should be over fairly quickly, but it does mean I’ll be away from the house for a couple of months.”

“You’re leaving again already?” Canada enquired, voice laced with sadness, and his wayward curl drooped.

“I’m sorry, _mon chou_ , but I have to do it if we want to keep you both safe. I promise I’ll come back as soon as possible, though. Besides, _Angleterre_ will still be with you, so you won’t be alone.”

“C-can I come with you?” America asked tentatively. England blanched.

“Absolutely not!” he ordered. “You’re far too young for the battlefield. It’s dangerous out there, you know.”

“But England, I bet you took part in battles when you were my age. Why can’t I see the world?”

Flashes of memories came back to him, of armour that was too heavy for his skinny frame, a helmet wobbling on his head as his men were beaten again and again by the Vikings. He shuddered at the thought of America in such a position and squeezed France’s hand tightly.

“No, I won’t allow it. You’ll stay here with me and Canada, and that’s the end of it.”

“But-“

“Now, now, _Amerique_ , you heard what he said. I’m sure there will be plenty of time for you to experience the battlefield in the future, but for now why not just enjoy being a child?”

The young boy was obviously put out, but he thankfully stopped his pestering, instead choosing to sulk in the corner. The subject was dropped, the rest of the afternoon continuing like any normal day, and it wasn’t mentioned again until they were getting ready for bed that night. The boys had already said their sleepy _I love you_ s and been tucked in, leaving France and England alone, the latter sitting cross legged on the bed while France brushed his hair before the mirror.

“How long do you think this will last?” England questioned suddenly, causing France to falter in his steady brushstrokes.

“How long will what last, _cheri_?”

“Everything. How long will our alliance last? How long can we keep playing house with the boys? You saw how happy they were to see us today, but I fear that we’ll lose it soon.”

“You shouldn’t be so pessimistic just before bed, _Angleterre,_ it’s not good for your health.” He laid down his brush and made for the bed, settling beside England and relaxing into the cushions.

“Doesn’t it worry you, though? Soon enough there’ll be another war in Europe and we’ll be called back, and then when we return the boys’ll be bigger than _we_ are! And what if we have to fight each other again? What if our next monarchs hate each other, or someone kicks up a fuss and drags us in with them? We can never go too long without fighting each other, and it seems to me that this can’t last.” He picked at his nails, refusing to look France in the eye as he confessed his anxieties. An arm slide around his shoulders, drawing him to France’s chest, and he pressed a hand against the warm skin, feel France rub comforting circles into his back.

“We just have to take each day as it comes and enjoy what we have. There’s no use worrying about future wars that haven’t happened yet, although something tells me that there’s more to it than that. Will you tell me what it is?”

England was quiet, feeling France’s steady heartbeat against his cheek, the lively thrum of Paris tangible from so many miles away.

“I don’t want you to go. I know that you have to, but I don’t want you to,” he mumbled into France’s skin, cheeks hot. “I want you to be here, with us, and we can do things together. Have picnics and teach them about the world, and it won’t be forced like it was before. I wish it could be easy like that.” France smiled wistfully, his eyes slipping closed as he held England close.

“You would miss the seas too much to stay here for so long. You would miss home.”

“But-“

“Listen to me, _Angleterre_. Our alliance might come to an end, the boys might grow up and leave us, but the world will still go round. You will still have your theatres and your faeries, and I will still have my chateaux and banquets. Perhaps we will fight again, maybe even sooner than we think, but we will always have this,” he squeezed him tighter at this, pressing a kiss to the top of England’s head, “to come back to.”

“You’re too romantic for your own good,” England groaned after a moment to regain his composure, but his pleased sighs and snuggling told France all he need to know.

“I know, but you love it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, here goes with the historical notes:
> 
> The War of Spanish Succession resulted in the Treaty of Utrecht, in which Spain had to cede most of its territories in Europe, with Sicily going to Savoy, and Naples and Sardinia to Austria. The newly formed Great Britain got Gibraltar. Philip V of Anjou was established as the Spanish king, as long as he agreed to leave the French principate he had held before. These losses meant that Spanish morale was pretty low during these times, and a guy called Alberoni decided to try and take back the Italian territory. The French, British and Dutch were pretty concerned about this, so on January 4th 1717 they signed the Triple Alliance. The French King at the time, Louis XV, was only 7, so Philippe II was ruling as regent. Philippe just so happened to be cousins with the British King George I, so they were both eager to improve Franco-British relations, which were pretty sore after the past 30 years or so.
> 
> Most of my information about the movements of this war comes from this very helpful article, should you wish to know more: http://marksimner.me.uk/the-war-of-the-quadruple-alliance/
> 
> Spain invaded Sardinia in the Summer of 1717 when Austria was still weak from war with Turkey, and nothing much was done about it. When they made a move on Sicily the following summer, however, it was a different story. The Spanish held a siege at Messina, which the Austrians tried to end but weren't very good at. The Holy Roman Empire joined the alliance to make it the Quadruple Alliance, and Great Britain engaged in the Battle of Cape Passaro, defeating Spain pretty badly. There's an interesting article and some paintings here: http://www.cichw1.net/pmbapass1.html  
> Also, fun fact, I was on holiday in Sicily over Easter and we stopped off at Messina and Milazzo, and I can tell you that they're very lovely now that they're not under siege.
> 
> The time I mentioned when France and England were allied before was the Franco-Dutch War, but England pulled out after 2 years due to fears of French influence and petty Catholic v. Protestant issues.
> 
> War was officially declared between them all in December. Then followed the Cellamare Conspiracy, a Spanish plot to replace the Regent with their own King, and in retaliation France invaded Spain in April. They were really successful at first, making good progress, but were eventually forced to withdraw due to disease. The article also notes that the French were quite reluctant to fight the Spanish, because they thought of them as friends, which I thought says a lot about the two Hetalia nations as well. At this time also, the French seized the Spanish colony of Pensacola in Florida.
> 
> In May, there was a joint plan between the Irish Jacobites and the Spanish to invade Great Britain and replace the King, however they were thwarted by the weather, which I believe was one of the issues facing the Armada over a century earlier. Roughly 300 Spaniards made it to Scotland, but were defeated at the Battles of Eilean Donan and Glen Shiel in May and June.
> 
> The war pretty much concluded with the Capture of Vigo in October 1719. The British forces invaded from the west of the country, holding Vigo for 10 days and causing a lot of damage while there. A French assault on the east of the country was planned simultaneously, to show Spain how vulnerable they were to an attack from both countries at once. This realisation led Spain to sue for peace on February 17th 1920, leaving Great Britain as the dominant naval force in Europe.
> 
> The news took a while to travel across the pond, so there were a few skirmishes in the Caribbean after the war was officially over. The threat to America mentioned at the end is the Villasur Expedition, a Spanish effort to reduce French influence in America. They were pushed back by the French forces, allied with some Native American tribes.
> 
> Oh yes, and the first tea was shipped to the Americas in 1714. I'm sure it was a very exciting time for them.
> 
> The alliance didn't come to an end until 1733, when France allied with Spain, and the years that followed would see them yet again fighting against each other in larger European wars. Still, many people say that these 17 years as allies confirm that France and England are actually capable of being civil for extended periods of time.
> 
> The only French I can think would need translating is 'Qui est là?' which means 'Who's there?' Any mistakes I've made with the language are entirely my fault, since it's been so long since my last lesson.
> 
> Thank you ever so much to anybody who made it through this beast, and once again, blogs-with-sass, I hope you enjoyed it :)


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